


Options

by MarbleAide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, M/M, References to Sex, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbleAide/pseuds/MarbleAide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim thinks on how he should leave Sebastian in the aftermath of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Options

**One.**

It’s the one that he finds himself thinking about the most. How it probably should end. With his lips locked up tight until the very end where everything’s spoken out loud, shout, from the barrel of a gun.

It’s the one where Sebastian actually cries, which he’s not sure if he likes. He doesn’t know how that would look on his face or how it would sound on his lips. He doesn’t know those emotions, has never seen them spread across his Tiger’s features, and that in itself leaves everything tipping on its axis. He doesn’t know how his insides would look after that. How broken they would be and how much thread would be needed to stitch all the pieces back together. Doesn’t even know if that would work. He’s positive what would be left would end up mostly scar tissue. All ragged edges and uneven dips and ridges that would bleed so easily when picked. He thinks they would look like the scars that run across Sebastian’s face, except they would be pinker on the inside, filled with too much blood and ready to burst at any moment.

It’s uncertain and that’s what he doesn’t like. He can’t calculate out the exact end scenario. It leaves him angry, wanting to break things, so he does and doesn’t explain anything when Sebastian’s the one who ends up cleaning it all up.

He’d be sitting in the window and looking out through the scope. His fingers would be steady and his phone would be sitting right next to his foot, waiting. His eye would be on the streets, looking down, only a few inches south of where his eye really should be. The doctor would come on time, he was sure of it, because even if he’s tiny and ordinary he’s smart enough to know. He’d have to time it right, to make sure Sebastian was still looking to the asphalt instead of the sun.

He’d have just the tiniest shred of mercy and not let him see. Let his mind fill in the missing gapes later. Leave the phantom images haunting worse than the real thing would. Sebastian’s an army man. He’s used to blood and wounds and the size of gun holes in skin. Even so, he’d still probably picture it worse. More blood and shredded up flesh. Bits of skull and brain. He wonders if Sebastian would think of noises besides the sound of a gun. Wonders if Sebastian would picture him screaming for that zero-point-two seconds even though there would only be silent. He wonders if he’d curse him.

The sound would draw his eye, he knows, because there was no plan on a gun being shot unless it was from Sebastian’s own hand. He wouldn’t know about the gun that Sebastian didn’t give him, and instead he took. A Beretta 92FS that fit nicely in his hand and perfectly in his mouth.

There would be utter silence after that, though he is sure Sebastian would start breathing almost too loud for three inhales and two exhales before getting his lungs under control even though the blood would still be crashing in his ears.

The scope would turn back to the ground. Finish the job like a good soldier, because that was the last thing he was ordered to do and Sebastian wants anything but to disappoint. Of course, Sherlock would jump and there would be no reason for him to twitch his fingers.

He’d pack up and slip his silent phone into his pocket and leave.

That’s when, he figures, the crying would start. He predicts it would happen three hours and thirty-two minutes after his own body went cold. That’s when the feeling would settle in and that’s when Sebastian’s psyche would finally deteriorate because he’s strong, but he’s still broken and it’s only a matter of time.

There would be anger too, of course, because he wasn’t told the full plan, wasn’t given the option to change anything. The flat would be smashed up, broken to pieces, but in the end Sebastian would settle among the fabric of six hundred pound suits, pillow fluff, and torn up Egyptian cotton sheets to crumble.

He wonders if he’d sob. If he’d choke on breath. If his eyes would go bloodshot and water would stain his cheeks until there was nothing left?

The dreams would haunt Sebastian and there would be left nothing but broken, cracked, shattered bits and something close to a lost-love that would always run short of reaching his heart.

**Two.**

The other is to tell him. Straight up, simple, beginning, middle, end, right in the eye so Sebastian knows it’s no lie. Both of them, after that, would be silent for a minute. Two. Almost three until it gets to the point of discomfort because neither of them will blink, give up, and it’s sort of like Sebastian’s way of asking, his way of saying no.

The conversation, he can predict, would go as followed:

_“Is there anything I can say or do that will change your mind?”_

_“No.”_

_“Right then. Okay.”_

And that would be it.

Sebastian would turn his gaze downwards, look at the ground and duck his head as if to show submission, but there was never any of that, he knows, or else he’d get bored without the battle.

It would be acceptance.

And they’d go about the rest of their time like normal, not speaking about the future at all and hinting about the lack of it even though Sebastian will be left with the Empire and his only reaction is a shrug of his shoulders.

It’s the look of saying ‘ _what’s the point?_ ’ without so many words and there will be no comment on it. It won’t matter. He’ll be dead, after all.

Their final night, unspoken of course, will be carried out just as usual. Though he thinks that, when it comes time, he’ll have the imprint of Sebastian’s hands bruised into his hips so much deeper and darker then they would ever be. He’d be reminded of that tempting grasp and walk with shocks of pain that almost scream out ‘ _don’t go’_ on one bone and ‘ _please_ ’ on the other.

It’s not like Sebastian to beg for anything outside of when they’re naked and desperate, but he thinks he can give him the leeway just this once as it will be his only time to say it, even if it never comes forth from his lips.

After that, the event will follow just the same, except without the surprise. Sebastian would not jerk his scope up with the sound of a bang, though he does picture the flinch of his shoulders and knows the sound will haunt him more than the images of it this time around. He’ll wait with held breathe until Sherlock hits the ground and his Doctor attempts to mend him.

Sebastian will pack up his gun and leave.

The main difference with this is there would be no phone sitting out, waiting for a call that always rang out with that damn near annoying ‘ _Good morning mister sunshine, you brighten up my day, come sit beside me in your way_ ’, because there would be no anticipated call. And to which Sebastian would change the ring almost right after, even if he knows he’ll never be able to hear it again. Just in case, because his Tiger is nothing if not thorough.

The rest of this ending would be quiet.

Because Sebastian would know this way, would keep walking without moving on, because he’s always too caught up in the past.

To this, he wonders what would kill him first, the always half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket or the bite of a bullet he hasn’t quite decided was from a different gun or one owned.

He wants to think the former, but there’s this ache in his stomach that he refuses to ever acknowledge that leans towards the latter.

This option means cruelty, above all others and maybe that would be the point.

**Three.**

But Jim doesn’t pick either of these. He thinks about them, yes, while holding his phone out in his hand absently and staring blankly at his office wall. Instead, his finger finally pushes over the button it’s been hovering over for some time now.

He calls up the sniper under Sebastian, Collins, and tells him the address of the building he needs to set up in three days from now, the exact window and to make sure he has the right angle, make sure to get the wind readings that day, watch for Watson, don’t fuck it up.

As for Sebastian, he makes sure there’s a problem in Germany that he has to attend to. Nothing that needs Jim’s attention, only a few underlings that need an eye on them and possibly a bullet between their teeth.

There’s nothing to suspect something is off, so Sebastian agrees and is off on the next flight out on a week long scouting to kill five men.

He’d miss all the fun, of course, though he’d get a call in three days early enough in the morning that he’ll be working on his second cup of coffee still, but the sleep will have worn off so his ears will not be mistaken.

With this option, there will be no mercy and there will be no cruelty.

There will be a man that grows angry. A man that will curse and snap and kill like he should, like the animal he really is.

A Tiger will be left to go down in a blazing glory of fighting that will be seen from the bright sun instead of in the dark tunnels of an Indian sewer which is so much more fitting for the Tiger of James Moriarty.

As it should be, Jim thinks, and doesn’t regret anything.

_As it should be._


End file.
